


Songbird

by trollmela



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught up in his grief over his twin brother’s death, Elrond hears rumours of his foster-father’s whereabouts. With only Erestor as his companion, the half-elf leaves Lindon to find Maglor. But at the end of their journey they must all face the question of what to do when the elf who was never meant to return to elven settlement is actually found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [ Journey Story big bang](http://journeystory.livejournal.com/).

**Chapter 1**  
The sea was calm. But the captain of the ship was seasoned, and he had sailed the seas around Númenor and Middle-earth since he was eleven. He could feel it in his bones that a storm was not too far away. If they sailed just a bit faster, they would get to Forlond before the wind and the rain found them. He shouted for his men.

It was a tight race. They missed the straight road to Forlond, which had not happened in the captain’s last fifteen years on a ship, and had to sail up the coast for a time. The wind picked up noticeably, the waves became rougher. He sent a brief prayer to Ulmo. It was late and steadily getting darker by the minute, but perhaps this in part saved them any more trouble; for the lookout spied the lights of Forlond, and it was not long then until they safely entered the harbour of the capital of the elven realm of Lindon.

* * *

Elrond kept a chest in his quarters which he rarely opened. It was made of old oak wood and appeared entirely inconspicuous with no decorations, dirty even, and contained a tattered banner which had once been dark blue. Elrond never took it out, had never attempted to have it restored. It had already been in bad condition by the time it came into his hands.

The banner depicted a stone, a jewel of greater worth than any forged before, or any crafted after. There were two circles, one right around the jewel and another larger one set in a diamond. From the centre of the jewel issued eight flames, four reaching into the outer diamond, the other four smaller ones restricted to the circle.

It was not just any emblem, not just any symbol of a house. It was not even just any symbol of the House of Fëanor. It was the flag kept by Maedhros and Maglor until their last sin, until they had at last regained the remaining two Silmarils at great cost.

Beneath the banner lay a harp of plain design which Maglor had owned long ago; there was a ring in a small box; a piece of torn parchment with fragments of mournful verses; wolf teeth on a leather cord. Elrond also carried a dagger which had been the bard’s last gift to him before they parted ways; it was unsurpassable in quality.

It might seem strange to have so few memories for several decades spent in the company of the elves he had learnt to call Russandol and Makalaurë. But by the time they met, the Fëanorian brothers had long stopped bothering to establish permanent quarters anywhere. They travelled wherever they saw fit, more often than not fleeing to escape Gil-galad’s troops. Thus their belongings had been few, and more aimed to be practical than memorabilia.

Still they had left Elrond some; perhaps they had even had a premonition that they would not need their belongings for much longer. Now, the half-elf kept them in the chest and rarely took them out.

 

The year was 443 of the Second Age. Less than a year ago, his twin-brother Elros had died, and only today had a ship from Númenor come with messages from Elros’ son Vardamir to both King Ereinion Gil-galad and Lord Elrond. Together with a letter, a sword had been handed over.

Elrond immediately recognized it as one which had belonged to Maedhros. He doubted that it had been touched or sharpened often in the time Elros had had it, but despite this, its blade was as keen as ever, another inimitable work of Fëanor.

Thankfully only Gil-galad was with him when Elrond unwrapped the sword: there were no friends of the sons of Fëanor in Forlond. Some spoke worse of them than others. Gil-galad curbed his tongue in Elrond’s presence, but he had his own unvoiced opinion on the brothers and their treatment of the half-elven twins they had captured.

Still he looked at the sword with some interest as Elrond handled it reverently. Fëanor’s rune was etched onto the pommel, and the sword’s name was written in Quenya in fine lines on the curved blade.

“Do you think of them often?” the high-king asked, taking a sip from his cup of wine.

Elrond shrugged. “From time to time,” he admitted.

Maglor had disappeared not long after he had regained and lost one Silmaril, and none of the scouts, whether sent by the elves of Middle-earth or the elves of Valinor, the Sindar or the Noldor, had managed to catch up with Maglor. Only rumours came to their ears from time to time, saying that the last son of Fëanor was wandering by the sea and singing laments. Elrond was probably the last to still keep an ear out, but even he had lost hope that Maglor would ever reappear. And many argued that it was better if the Fëanorian remained gone.

Ereinion gave a nearly inaudible sigh. Since Elrond had come to Lindon over 400 years ago, their relationship had been one of great friendship. The half-elf and his brother had been disoriented from years of moving around Beleriand and living in less stellar conditions with the Fëanorians. Ereinion was a famously genial elf, and it was said that in this Gil-galad was more like King Fingon than Turgon, though who had made that judgement was not clear anymore; for there were very few elves from Gondolin who had stayed in Lindon for any length of time to be able to judge so, and who else but they would know what Turgon had been like as High King? In any case, Ereinion had immediately dispelled the use of titles between him and Elrond and taken him under his care.

While Elros had quickly made contact with humans and soon found himself at home with them, Elrond had worked hard at the court of Lindon. It had taken a while until the other elves had ceased looking at him as if searching for flaws, uncommon outbursts of violence, or anything else that might have been caused by the Fëanorions’ teachings.

“You probably shouldn’t carry it in public,” Ereinion commented, jerking Elrond out of his memories.

Elrond just barely restrained himself from throwing an annoyed look at his cousin. Of course he wouldn’t carry the sword in public. Ereinion perceived the half-elf’s sentiment anyhow and lifted his hands in a placating gesture.

“You don’t usually talk about your time with them,” he said.

“I felt that speaking any kind word about Russandol and Makalaurë would not be welcomed.”

“Elves have a long memory.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

There was a knock on the door, and at a word from the king it opened. Elrond covered the sword’s pommel and Fëanor’s initials with his palm.

It was Ereinion’s secretary, come to remind him of his impending meeting with Forlond’s builders’ guild. Ereinion emptied his cup.

“I’ll see you tonight at dinner?” he asked the half-elf.

“Of course.”

Elrond left for his quarters. He sat in front of the chest, opening it with a key which never left his person. It might seem strange to lock these unwanted and forgotten things away like precious treasure, but to Elrond that is what they were. He took his time removing each item: the faded banner, the small harp; he opened the box and twisted the ring around his fingers; he read through the broken sentences of Maglor’s poetry, and pressed his thumb onto the pointed end of a wolf tooth. He gazed down at the relics around him and remembered.

 

**580, First Age**  
There was talk that the War of Wrath would last forever. The worst thing was not knowing anything: only the elves from Valinor, the Maia and the Vala were part of the host most involved in the War of Wrath. They had not asked for the aid of the elves of Middle-earth, and those who had considered joining forces with the Valarian force had quickly been dissuaded by messages from Eonwë.

Every elf in Middle-earth, however, could tell stories of nights spent awake with terrible noise in their ears, the earth trembling beneath them from the Valar's feet and the great destruction left in the Valarian host's wake. And these days it seemed to get worse rather than better.

Not even–or perhaps especially–the sons of Fëanor dared to approach the main host. They contented themselves with taking out stray troops of orcs and other vile creatures which had either fled from the Valar or not yet met them.

The half-elven twins Elrond and Elros had, after some great discussion between the brothers and a fight between Maedhros and Erestor, been allowed to take a small part in the skirmishes, always under the watchful eyes of Maedhros, Maglor, or Erestor. 

But as fewer and fewer orcs crossed their paths, and the tales of battle from the Valarian host became less frequent, they came to the conclusion that the end of the war was near. Morgoth's fortress had not yet been reached, but everyone knew that it was only a matter of time and that there the war would be decided.

Russandol and Makalaurë were increasingly often enclosed with each other, speaking about what was to come. The half-elven twins were not included in these meetings. Why Maedhros and Maglor took counsel together seemed obvious to the twins; it was the Silmarilli, of course, which were foremost on their minds. Elros made some derogatory remarks out of the Fëanorians' earshot. Erestor scowled more than usual. Elrond was silent and listened to what he could.

"Two jewels only remain. We have failed to break Morgoth's hold on them; soon, if they are indeed victorious, it will be the Valar who shall gain them. What of us then? Still we have an oath to fulfil, for it merely sleeps now," Maedhros had said to his brother. Elrond had noted that Makalaurë rarely spoke up.

But it was the bard who one day said to Elrond and Elros while Erestor was present:

"The oath's dreadful voice will likely call to us soon, and it seems to me that the War of Wrath becomes only more terrible. If–when," Maglor corrected himself, "we set out again to regain our father's work, we will not take you with us. You have some years yet before you reach your majority, and Russandol aches to get closer to Morgoth’s fortress to perhaps prevent the Silmarilli from falling into anyone’s hands but ours. It is getting too dangerous, and thus I have suggested sending you to Ereinion, Orodreth’s son, who is said to dwell on the Isle of Balar."

Neither Elrond nor Elros said anything. They had gotten used to living with Russandol and Makalaurë, but they did not fool themselves by thinking that it had always been by choice.

Maglor had not said any more at that point, and Erestor, surprisingly, had not pushed despite his visible surprise at the unexpected change of Maedhros’ mind. Perhaps all the times he had fought with Maedhros had finally had an impact on the redhead?

None of them had even remotely assumed that the twins’ welcome in Forlond would not be as stellar as they had expected. 

 

**443, Second Age**

****As King Vardamir had sent a number of scrolls which Elrond wanted to take a look at, the half-elf made his way to the library.

The library of Forlond had grown quickly since its founding, not least due to Erestor's influence. Erestor, after years of going with less than five books, had finally flourished in his new surroundings, and his only annoyance was the current librarian, a centuries old Sindar who didn't show any signs of sailing West anytime soon and was the biggest obstacle in Erestor's ambitions to head the library. Erestor’s first choice of career as an advisor had been denied to him; his willingness to go with the sons of Fëanor, even if only to take care of the half-elven twins, had made the other elves suspicious of him.

Erestor was not especially tall – Elrond towered above him by more than a head – and lithe, with waist-long, raven-black hair which the counsellor usually bound to a single tight plait when he worked. The full glory of his hair was only revealed on few occasions, like on feast days or when Erestor spent his leisure time in public.

The elf was calm under all circumstances, and Elrond had never seen him shy from stressful situations. He hardly ever wore a smile, and he was known for harsh words to those he thought deserving of them. He was reliable and efficient, and sometimes Elrond wondered what life with the Fëanorians would have been like if Erestor hadn’t been there.

Elrond wasn’t surprised to see the other elf in the library, already bent over one of King Vardamir’s scrolls and examining them with a keen eye. On his entry, Erestor lifted his head, irritation at the interruption quickly erased off his face, and greeted the half-elf. Elrond went to his side to see the scrolls for himself.

“Genealogies,” Elrond realized.

Erestor hummed in agreement. “Your lineage in particular.”

“Anything I don’t know yet?” he asked jokingly.

The other elf snorted. “Hardly. Just checking to see whether they’re correct. It’s amazing how much humans forget over just a few centuries.”

Tentatively Elrond reached out to trace the inked letters of his brother’s name. The date of his birth and death were written in smaller script beneath, the name of his wife next to him. Elrond swallowed.

“It’s amazing how short a year can be for an immortal,” he remarked.

“Grief isn’t something that passes over night. Even decades later it can still be like a sore wound,” Erestor replied matter-of-factly. Elrond did not doubt that Erestor had his own wounds, but he never spoke of them.

“Do you know where the rest of the scrolls King Vardamir sent are?”

“The librarian had them put in the chamber there. He has already said that he will want to have a look at them.”

“He’ll have to wait until I’m done.”

 

Spring in the area around the Gulf of Lhûn was a busy season. Not just because of farming. All three major Elvish towns around the gulf, Forlond in Forlindon to the north, Harlond in Harlindon to the south and Mithlond to the east, held spring equinox festivals. Ever since Gil-galad had settled in Forlond and set up his court there, Forlond was the first to celebrate spring, followed by Harlond, currently governed by Celeborn; it was undisputed though that Mithlond, the last to celebrate, held the oldest and best festival.

Forlond’s spring equinox celebrations were only ten days away, and all duties had long been delegated. Elrond was in charge of the seating plan, a task Erestor considered beneath him because, to quote him, “any air-headed scribe could do it.” That, in Elrond’s opinion was not quite true – he still vividly remembered Makalaurë’s stories of what disputes had been caused in the Fëanorian household just over the question of who sat where. And that had been at a normal every day dinner! It was, however, true that Erestor could have handled a task more important, if anyone had been willing to give it to him. But the king did not oversee everything himself, and neither Elrond nor Erestor were the kind to ask for the king’s favour in a matter such as this. They bore it stoically instead.

Besides, Erestor was much more annoyed on Elrond’s behalf about the half-elf’s task, which had been to write the invitations to elves of high rank such as Celeborn, Galadriel and Círdan; now that was _really_ a task for an ‘air-headed scribe’.

* * *

_**538 First Age, by the mouths of Sirion** _

_****_There was shouting, screaming, and the sound of battle; swords clashing, bones breaking, bodies hitting the muddy ground with a muted thud. It had been raining for days. The house of Eärendil and Elwing was not much larger than the other houses, nor did it show any signs of particular luxury. They had had at least one thing in common with most citizens by the mouths of Sirion: they were refugees. They had escaped the sacks of their cities, and now there was another one.

Elwing was gone. She had fled through a window, seeking to lead the sons of Fëanor away from her sons. And indeed, Maedhros pursued her until they came to a cliff from which there was no escape. She jumped into the sea, and Maedhros turned away with a cry of anger and despair.

Their failed task should have ended there, but Maedhros turned back to the house, his wrath unleashed and hungry for destruction. This third battle of elves against elves was the worst, with even some of his own and his brothers’ followers rebelling. He stormed back into the house, overturning furniture as he searched uselessly through the rooms for something that was not there, because he had already seen it shining brightly upon Elwing’s chest.

A locked door was no obstacle for the eldest son of Fëanor in a rage. He splintered wood as he kicked through the door, sword held tight and ready in his left hand. The room he entered seemed to be a nursery, with wooden toys strewn around and two small, child-sized beds sitting next to each other on either side of a window. He took in these details within a heartbeat, but his attention immediately zeroed in on the sole occupant of the room: a slender elf of average height with loose, waist-long raven hair stood protectively in front of the doors to a closet. His eyes were fierce, but his breath came quickly. He was no warrior, and the short, ceremonial dagger awkwardly clenched in his fist only confirmed the assessment. Only the most skilled assassin would dare attempt to go against a man armed with a sword with such a weapon, and this elf was no such person.

Maedhros’ lips curled mockingly. “What are you protecting?” he demanded.

“I shall not tell you,” the elf replied through clenched teeth.

Fëanor’s eldest approached the elf with two long strides. His opponent threw himself at him in a desperate move, and Maedhros did not even bother using his blade. With the stump of his right arm, surrounded by a metal vambrace, he struck the back of the elf’s fist, causing him to drop the dagger with a cry of pain. With his left hand Maedhros knocked the pommel of his sword across the elf’s forehead, and the elf’s body was thrown sideways onto the floor where he remained.

Maedhros paused briefly to see whether the elf had truly lost consciousness, then opened the door to the closet. At first he did not see anything in the darkness, but indrawn breaths and whimpering drew his eyes to the floor where two small children crouched, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Identical grey eyes set in identical faces gazed up at him in fear.

He had no time to consider his next action, for at that moment Maglor burst into the room behind him.

“Brother, is Elwing truly gone with the jewel?”

“Indeed she is,” Maedhros replied grimly, turning to the bard. “She jumped into the sea with our father’s Silmaril on her chest.”

“Mother,” one of the children cried. The other quickly hushed his brother.

Maglor peered around his brother to the children. “Twins,” he exclaimed in amazement, his face turning soft and sad. “Ambarussa, Russandol,...” he began, turning to his brother again, “the Ambarussa were both slain.”

Maedhros lowered his head in grief, copper hair falling to shield his face. When he lifted his face again, determination showed in his eyes as he gazed intently at the children. His hand tightened around his sword, and Maglor feared he meant to kill them. He stepped between his brother and the children.

“Brother, has not enough blood been shed already? Please, Russandol, spare them.” It was evident that the bard felt for them.

His brother laughed grimly. “Do you want them? These are the sons of Elwing. They took our brothers, so I say let us take their sons instead. Twins for twins. A fair deal if you ask me!”

It seemed to Maglor that there was madness in Maedhros’ eyes, an insanity that he had caught a glimpse of before on occasion. He spoke of the twins as if he were talking about pets, and what his reaction would be if Maglor said no, he could not fathom.

“Yes, I’ll take them,” Maglor forced himself to reply calmly.

Maedhros began to sheath his sword.

“Not without me you will not!” a voice croaked. The elf who had attempted to protect the brothers earlier, slowly stumbled to his feet with some effort. Blood streaked his face from a split lip and a crooked nose.

The eldest Fëanorion promptly whipped out his blade again. Maglor staved him off with a gesture of his hand.

“Who are you?” the bard asked.

“I am their tutor.”

Maedhros laughed disparagingly. “More likely their nurse. They are much too young to be taught. What are they, eight?”

“They are six, and half-elven. They grow quicker in mind and body than elves, and mannish children start learning their letters at five,” the elf replied defiantly.

“Do they?”

The elf shot the redhead a dark look.

“What is your name?” Maglor inquired before his brother decided to answer the elf’s challenge with his sword.

“Erestor.”

“Very well, Erestor. If you go with us, you must obey us. You take care of the children and do not interfere in our affairs. You will not contact any of your relatives or friends!” Maglor warned.

“I have no relatives left, and I have no wish to learn of your bloody plans. I will care for the twins and nothing else.”

Maglor accepted with a nod. Maedhros did not argue, a sharp look at Erestor the only sign of his disapproval. Erestor did not react save for staring back.

 

**443, Second Age**

****Elrond’s eyes snapped open. His bedroom was flooded with light, and birds were singing their morning greetings outside his windows. As an elf prone to visions, a trait inherited from his mother’s line and ultimately Melian, dreams always held greater importance for him than for other people. This was the first time he had had that dream. Of course, he remembered flashes of the day of the Third Kinslaying. But he had never been told what happened before Maedhros wrenched open that closet door, nor had he ever asked.

He wondered why he had so many dreams of that period now of all times. Perhaps it was his brother’s gift which had opened his mind to reminiscences.

Elrond made his way to Ereinion’s quarters. As they still had much to speak about, they had agreed to have breakfast in the privacy of Gil-galad’s rooms.

The high king sat already at the table, dark hair hanging in wet strands down his shoulders. He wore dark blue robes which were loose and comfortable. In front of him, Forlond’s servants had already served breakfast consisting of eggs, fruit, bread, butter, and honey.

“Did you sleep well?” Elrond inquired as he settled down in the chair across from the king.

“Like a rock. You?”

“I had a strange dream.”

Ereinion raised an eyebrow. “Vision?”

“I’m not sure. I dreamt of the attack at the mouths of Sirion. There were things I saw which are certainly not memories, and I do not think anyone told me about them either.”

“Was it anything to worry about?”

“No. I saw Erestor. I’ll have to ask him later whether events happened as I saw them. To tell the truth, I haven’t thought often about that day. I hardly remember it anyhow. No matter.” He gave a small sigh before changing the subject. “I need to do some work today for the equinox festival.”

He was still working on the seating plan and trying to remember which elves didn’t get along at all so he wouldn’t to put them anywhere near each other.

“Don’t you have a meeting with a Númenórean emissary?” Elrond asked.

The elven King nodded. “I do. But don’t worry about it, we can do without you for the day. Gelmir will be there with me to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.” He smirked. Of course, Gil-galad was a perfectly capable king, but he made jokes at his own expense as much as anyone else’s.

“Isn’t Gelmir a bit young?”

Gil-galad shrugged. “Good chance to learn then.”

Elrond didn’t argue.

He met up with Erestor for lunch as they often did. In a way, they were both outsiders, and it made them rely on each other for much. Erestor, of course, was in the weaker position as Elrond’s family ties and friendship with the king afforded him some advantages.

They were in Elrond’s study where they had privacy for their talks, be it of the important kind or merely gossip. Elrond’s dream had been plaguing him all morning, and so, as they drank their tea, he finally asked:

“Do you remember when Russandol found me and Elros?”

Erestor raised an eyebrow at the unexpected topic. “Every moment of it.”

“Did you fight Russandol? Did you stand in front of the closet where we hid?”

The elf threw a wondering look at him. “Did that cur- I mean Maedhros tell you that or the bard?”

Elrond smiled sadly. Erestor had had a lot of colourful names with which he referred to Maedhros. Moreover he had steadfastly refused to call the brothers Russandol and Makalaurë, the names they preferred over their Sindarin translations.

“Neither,” he replied. “I dreamt about it this night.”

“Like a vision?”

“Like a vision, merely of the past. It was more than a memory, for I could see Russandol and other things I could not have seen even if I had a perfect memory of that day. I was wondering whether I saw truly.”

“You probably saw the truth. Though I would not say that I fought Maedhros. I never had any significant weapons training until I followed you into the Fëanorions’ camp.”

Elrond frowned. “Who taught you there?”

“Maedhros.”

“Russandol?!” Elrond exclaimed in surprise.

Erestor smiled a little. It was not without bitterness. “Yes.”

“But we never saw you training!”

“You were with Maglor during those times. I didn’t want you to see it, was even against Maedhros training you and your brother when the time came. I knew his methods, and they were ruthless at times, and I doubt that he always knew whom he fought. When you were old enough and Maedhros got his way, I made sure Maglor was never far during your sessions. We fought harder than ever then. Both verbally and when sparring.”

Elrond swallowed. “I remember. I never knew why. I didn’t even think about it.”

“You were a child, and you had other concerns. Suffice to say, Maedhros taught me what he liked, though never enough to turn the dagger to his ribs.”

“Would you have?” Elrond demanded, suddenly hit by more insight into Erestor’s character and his relationship with Maedhros than ever before.

Erestor laughed dryly. “Probably not.”

Elrond thought he understood then. His dark-haired advisor had not merely hated Maedhros. He had respected him, too, though he might never admit it openly.

“He was mad, I think,” Erestor mused.

“Elros said so once, too. He thought Russandol had broken years before the end, and that it was not Morgoth’s torture that did it.”

“Probably not. More likely the Nírnaeth.”

Elrond thought of his brother Elros. His exact words had been: _“You know as well as I that it was not the torture which broke him. But broken he is, and only that damned oath still keeps him alive. T’would be better for all if it weren’t so.”_ And when the message of Maedhros’ suicide had come to them in the Valorian camp, Elros had brought two bottles of wine into their tent and said: _“I’m sure he’s better off wherever he is now.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Although both Elrond and Erestor were bored by their part in the preparations for equinox, or perhaps because of that, they were glad when the big day finally arrived and everyone enjoyed themselves; Elrond thought he could even spot a new couple or two.

Not only the people of Forlond had come to celebrate but also guests such as Círdan from Mithlond and Celeborn, Oropher, and Thranduil from Harlond had arrived. Gil-galad gave a short speech he and Elrond had worked on the night before after which everyone happily ate as much food as they could possibly take.

Musicians took the stage and invited elves to dance to lively music. Elrond did not participate as he was not much of a dancer, his foster-father Maglor’s lessons having been completely in vain. It was an art he had never mastered nor cared much for. It seemed to him that most elves tended more to making fools of themselves as they attempted it.

He did not notice it at first when Círdan came up to him until he offered the half-elf one of the two goblets of wine in his hands.

“This year will be a good one for us,” he commented. “I can feel it.”

“If today is any indication, it certainly looks like it,” Elrond replied, indicating the clear skies.

“You’ve done well helping with the organizing.”

Elrond, unable to restrain himself, gave him a look. “I’m not exactly a novice at this. In fact, I do much greater work for Ereinion, as I’m sure you know.”

“You’re right, of course. You’re not a youngling anymore, far from it in fact. Excuse an old elf’s pitiful attempt at small talk.” He took a sip of his wine.

“What is it you really want to speak to me about then?”

“I’ve had news from the coast.”

“About what?” Elrond didn’t think much of it, although it was strange that the shipwright would consult him above all others.

“It’s about Maglor Fëanorion.” He pronounced the name carefully, clearly, but in such a low voice that no elf passing them by chance could have heard had there been anyone close enough.

Elrond’s breath caught in his lungs. “Makalaurë?” he asked tentatively. “But there have been rumours before,” he noted.

“I know. But these have persisted for longer now than any before. I thought you might want to know.”

Elrond suddenly realized that Círdan must have known of those rumours for some time now.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I wanted to have them verified,” the shipwright merely replied.

“And did you?”

He nodded. “Apparently, his voice has been heard several times now on the shores of Minhiriath.”

Elrond’s hand tightened around his goblet. His first instinct was to pack a bag, saddle a horse and ride to Minhiriath. The older elf could probably read it off his face.

“You’re the first one I’ve told this. If you’re planning to leave, I’d speak to Ereinion first if I were you. You must consider all outcomes, although I cannot say that I have great hopes.”

Elrond fixed him with a hard stare. “Would you even wish me success? He is a kin slayer of your people.”

The elf nodded. “That he is. Yet I am old enough to come to the conclusion that four hundred years spent alone in the wild is a long penance even for an elf. You will find few people who share this opinion, however.”

Just at that moment, Oropher danced past with his wife, and Círdan gave them a nod in greeting. Elrond could take a hint, too. He nodded.

“I’ll make my preparations and think it over.”

The shipwright took note, of course, that Elrond had not said that he would think about the issue and _then_ prepare for the journey. But he didn’t mention it.

“I hope you find whatever you are looking for.”

He did not mean that Elrond was necessarily looking for his foster father. Perhaps, the half-elf was simply looking for closure, and in Minhiriath he might find it.

* * *

“There have been rumours before,” Erestor remarked, unknowingly echoing Elrond’s earlier words.

“None which Círdan explicitly told me about,” Elrond responded, absently watching the dancing couples.

“Even if you go – which I strongly advise against – he will most likely have already moved on by the time you arrive.”

With a great sigh, Elrond turned to him: “I have to try. It’s... it’s been over a four hundred years! Erestor...” It was rare to see the half-elf at a loss for words, and the near desperation in his eyes was new, too. “I can’t continue hearing these things. He needs to rest! I need to rest!”

“Have you considered that perhaps it is not in your ability to give him that rest?”

“I need to try,” Elrond said again.

Erestor reflected on it. He finished his wine and passed the cup off to a passing servant.

“You’ll be setting over the gulf to Harlond?”

Elrond nodded. “It will be quicker. Then travel along the coast of Harlindon and cross over the Baranduin into Minhiriath.”

“And have you thought about what you want to do if you actually find him?”

“Not specifically. I’ll have to talk to Gil-galad first, of course. Círdan has already warned me though.”

The other elf grunted. “Probably better that way. But if he will even follow you?”

Elrond merely shrugged.

“When do you plan to leave?” Erestor changed the topic.

“As soon as possible.”

“Alone?”

“Preferably. It’s a personal matter.”

“I could come with you. It’s not as if anyone here would miss me. Maglor knows me, and two elves journeying together is better than one.”

The half-elf had to agree silently. He knew that without himself there was little in Forlond for Erestor, and the elf would be good company.

“All right,” he said.

“You can speak to Gil-galad tomorrow.”

“I’m not waiting that long.” Elrond shook his head impatiently, and made his way straight to the king. Erestor rolled his eyes behind the younger elf’s back.

 

Ereinion was in conversation with Galadriel, who had accompanied her husband, Celeborn, to the feast. She looked radiant as always, dressed in a white dress and wearing a golden circlet on her head.

“Elrond,” she said when he approached. “We haven’t had a chance to speak to each other yet tonight.”

Elrond gave her a brief smile. “Indeed, we haven’t. Perhaps we can talk later. Right now, I would like to speak to Ereinion, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” The lady took her leave.

Gil-galad raised his eyebrow at Elrond. “Did something happen?”

“In a way. Círdan gave me a message.” Glancing around himself, he lowered his voice. “Makalaurë has been seen in Minhiriath. I want to travel there as soon as possible. Preferably in two days at the latest.”

His cousin frowned. “That’s sudden. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“And if you do find him?”

“That’s why I’m coming to you.”

Ereinion sighed heavily. Taking Elrond by the arm, he led him away from the throng of people.

“I have thousands of elves living in my realm, many of whom are Sindar or Teleri. Only about a hundred of them were born after the War of Wrath, everyone else either knows enough of the Fëanorians, or knows someone who had personal experience with them, or experienced them themselves. If you do find him, I do not advise you to invite him here to Harlond, or any other city in Lindon for that matter. If he stays anywhere in my realm, sooner or later people will know that he is here unless he never leaves his home, never raises his voice; and even then people might find out, and they will not find his isolation an adequate punishment for the elves he has murdered. I’m sorry, I don’t know what solution you want from me because I cannot think of one to offer.”

Elrond stared at the ground. In a way, he had expected an answer like that. But he had hoped, still did, that there would be some other solution.

“Among men, perhaps,” Elrond said quietly to himself.

Gil-galad’s first reaction was indignation. Elves and men rarely shared a village, they were too different. But on second thought...

“He and Russandol often traded with humans,” Elrond threw in. “They will already have forgotten the stories, and they were never as involved as elves. Even if the stories are still around, they’ll be merely myths now, and no one believes those. Thank you, cousin, you’ve given me a brilliant idea!”

“Not so fast, Elrond! First, you have to find him.”

For a moment, Elrond had almost forgotten about that. But he shook his doubt off. If a man did not believe in his goals, he would never achieve them.

“I and Erestor can leave in two days then?”

“Just the two of you, all the way to Minhiriath? What if you are attacked?”

“I don’t want too many people involved. Besides, the roads should be safe, evil has been beaten.”

“For a while, at least,” the King agreed. And with a sigh, he added: “Yes, you’re free to go.”

* * *

That same night, Elrond had another task to complete. While many people had come to the Equinox festival, one person of note was not there, and it was him Elrond had to speak to. For besides Maglor, one other descendant of Fëanor was still alive: Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. The elf had inherited not only Fëanor’s skill in smith craft but also his passion. And although he had been living in Forlond for decades now, there were still elves who disliked getting involved with him because of his past and his family.

And Celebrimbor was too involved in his work anyway to care for most elves in Forlond. He dedicated himself purely to his work and rarely went to festivals or feasts.

His smithy was at the outskirts of the city, but even in the deepest of nights Elrond could have found his way to it. As he had expected, the hearth fire was still burning inside, and as he came closer, he heard the beating of a hammer against metal. Elrond knew that several of Celebrimbor’s neighbours had complained about the noise during night-time before, but to no avail.

He didn’t bother to knock. Celebrimbor wouldn’t hear him anyway, and if he minded people coming inside, he was more than capable of throwing them out. He had a stature typical for a smith, with broad shoulders and strong, muscled arms. He was tall, almost as tall as Maedhros, and it was said that he had beat his own father in height.

As Elrond opened the door, a wave of hot air blew into his face. The half-elf opened his cloak immediately and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He would have liked to leave it open for at least some fresh, cool air to come inside, but, unlike Celebrimbor, he did care about the neighbours.

Celebrimbor was standing over the quenching basin, an unhappy expression on his face as he held a blade with a pair of tongs he had just retrieved from the water.

“Elrond!” he greeted loudly when he saw his visitor. It was hard to tell whether he was pleased to see the other elf or not – he was never one to show much emotion. Carelessly, he threw the blade onto a pile of similar ones. It may not have been enough for his standards, but there were other elves with lower expectations who’d pay more than Celebrimbor ever would for such a blade; even if it was only to say that they owned a blade made by the grandson of Fëanor.

“It’s good to see you, cousin,” Elrond replied. They clasped hands.

They met from time to time, but they were not particularly close. Celebrimbor did his best to distance himself from the smudge his family carried and had no desire to dredge up memories. They had no interests in common either, so their encounters were short, of little import, and few.

Until today.

“I’ve come about an issue quite important to me. I apologize for visiting so late, but I plan to leave Forlond as soon as possible.”

Celebrimbor frowned. “What is it? And what does it have to do with me?”

“Makalaurë.”

The smith raised his head in surprise but did not comment. Not yet. He wanted to know what the half-elf had to say first.

“According to Círdan, he is in Minhiriath. I’m going to look for him.”

“I see,” Celebrimbor said. When he adding nothing else, Elrond continued:

“I wanted to ask you whether you wish to come with us.”

The other elf shook his head. “No. I admire your loyalty to your foster father, the same one who kidnapped you and your brother against your will and made your mother jump off a cliff. But I do not feel the same loyalty to my uncle. You are playing with fire. You may have been spared the worst of Fëanorian notoriety; but even you should know that they are like dry tinder, just waiting for a flame to light them and be another firestorm of rage chasing over Middle-earth.”

Elrond was taken aback. Celebrimbor usually spoke his mind, that was true, but he was shocked and hurt by the sharp rebuff.

“You are exaggerating. Makalaurë is just one elf, and the oath can no longer be fulfilled. I have spoken to the King, and while we agree that Lindon is not the place for him, it does not mean that he needs to remain lost forever.”

“I’m afraid it means exactly that. I’m sorry Elrond, but don’t expect me to support your plans.”

It was like a kick to his gut. Celebrimbor must have seen it on his face, for he added:

“I’m sorry, cousin, I really am. But do not believe that I am only thinking of myself. You would do well to abandon your plans.”

The half-elf shook his head. “I won’t.”

Celebrimbor’s shoulders slumped. There was nothing else to say.

* * *

The next morning saw Elrond and Erestor rising early, their bags and provisions having been packed the night before. Since nothing stood in their way, they had decided to leave earlier than originally planned. They booked passage on one of the boats which regularly crossed the Gulf of Lhûn to Harlond. The sun was rising in the east, and it was too early for most elves to be up, especially for elves who had celebrated equinox the night before. Thus Elrond and Erestor were quite surprised to see a familiar face on the boat: Thranduil Oropherion.

“I deduce from your presence that the bed you spent the night in was not your own,” Erestor remarked pointedly.

Thranduil only smiled at him.

“You deduced correctly. I’m surprised to see you up this early. It’s too early for a meeting with Celeborn, so where does your journey lead?”

“We are travelling south,” Elrond spoke up before Erestor could snap at the Sindar that it was none of his business.

Thranduil glanced around the deck. “You do not have any horses.”

“Galadriel has promised to lend us some.”

It was true. When Elrond had spoken to her the night before, after coming to an agreement with Gil-galad, the keen-eyed lady had noticed Elrond’s distraction. Seeing as she was related to Maglor, Elrond had told her about his plans, and she had offered him and Erestor horses for the journey, thus saving them the trouble of either taking a larger ship or round the entire bay on horseback.

“I see. An early meeting with Galadriel then.”

“You could say that.”

Thranduil looked out onto the water. “I heard there were... certain rumours, concerning Minhiriath.”

“Did you, now?” Elrond asked, his voice as falsely casual as the Sindar’s had been.

Thranduil abandoned the view of the bay to give him a serious look. “Personally I doubt their accuracy. And even if they are true, by the time you arrive in Minhiriath, the situation may be different. But just in case: be careful what you bring back with you from your trip.”

Without waiting for a reply, the elf turned his back and walked away to another part of the boat.


	3. Chapter 3

When they left the boat in Harlond, Galadriel was already waiting for them.

“I have put together provisions for you. I assume you would rather ride immediately than have a second breakfast?” she inquired politely.

Elrond could not tell, but he thought she was nervous; Galadriel should have known that he and Erestor would pack provisions, and they had no need for extras. Yet he did not mention it. He and Erestor exchanged looks.

“We’ll move on,” the half-elf decided, “thank you for the offer, and the provisions.”

The horses were already saddled, Galadriel’s provisions stored safely behind the saddles. They added their own luggage.

 

Thranduil had had a point, of course. By the time Elrond and Erestor arrived in Minhiriath, Makalaurë was very likely to have already continued his wanderings, wherever those led him. And Elrond might never find him. But something made him want to do this, made him want to distance himself from Lindon on the off chance of achieving something with this journey.

They rode along the coast, west of the southernmost chain of the Blue Mountains. The area was wooded, at times, so thickly he and Erestor had to pick their way over uneven paths through the trees, at other times only sparsely. Game lived there in abundance, and when they wanted a change, they moved closer to the sea and picked a spot for fishing. But hunting and fishing took time, so Elrond was glad for the dried meat and waybread Galadriel had packed for them in addition to their own. The dried meat lasted them for a week before they ran out.

They spent the nights under the clear, open skies on soft moss and grass. It reminded Elrond of his childhood. Erestor proved to be the best companion Elrond could have wished for. He offered his unwavering, silent support through actions and his presence and made no attempt to change Elrond’s mind about the journey.

The population in these lands was sparse. The dwarves lived further north in the Blue Mountains, where their mines were located. The woodelves preferred to dwell further inland, which thus left humans as the only possible inhabitants. Elrond did not care to stop in any of their villages, and they did not come across any either until they found their way to the Baranduin.

The river was wide, and the only bridge crossing it could be found on the Great East Road. An alternative was the Sarn Ford, but that too was too far northwards. It would have taken them days to ride there. However, Elrond knew of a human settlement on the banks of the Baranduin, and he was confident that they would have at least have a ferry which the elves could use to cross the river.

He did not know how much contact the humans usually had with elves – he wagered very little – but Elrond hoped that this would not cause any delays or inconveniences. Unknown to him, Erestor thought the same. He mistrusted humans more than Elrond did, being older than the half-elf and bearing a grudge against them since the Nírnaeth. He managed to ignore the fact that some of Elrond’s ancestors had been humans.

Night came, and the sun made way for the moon. They were just about to make camp when they saw lights and decided to make for them rather than bed down in the wild. They came from the settlement they were making for.

It had become a small town since Elrond had last heard of it. It had no fortification, although piles of straight, wooden posts indicated that there were plans to build stockades in the near future. Due to the darkness they could not see that these plans were already being carried out on the other side of the settlement.

Moreover, the town offered something besides family homes, small shops and a market; something which the elves welcomed – an inn.

“Look at that,” Erestor said. “The town has grown, hasn’t it?” He pointed towards the sea where they could see a long pier; evidently, trading ships had discovered the settlement.

The Baranduin was too shallow for anything larger than a rowing boat, but transporting goods on rafts was quite common.

The inn was nevertheless small. Elrond and Erestor left their horses outside, confident that they would not move unless commanded to do so. They had to duck slightly to walk through the door, the thick smell of pipe weed greeting them. The guests were all humans, and most of them looked like residents. Many sat along a table for ten people, roughly hewn from wood as the rest of the furniture. Three other tables were occupied, one by two older women gossiping across the table as they sewed, and the third by some sailors.

The residents at the long table looked up, halting in their conversations to give the newcomers a curious look. Evidently, travellers did not often grace their town this late. They quickly returned to speaking with each other, although some not so well-hidden looks were still cast on them.

Elrond and Erestor had not lowered the hoods of their travelling cloaks. They stepped up to the bar, where the innkeeper was already awaiting them.

“What can I do for you, travellers?”

“We wish to rent a room for the night,” Elrond said.

The man scrutinized them, trying to catch a glimpse of their faces beneath their hoods. “One bed or two?”

“Two.”

“You’ll have to pay upfront.”

Elrond dropped some coins onto the bar without revealing where on his person they had come from. Middle-earth had no common currency; various realms and cities minted their own coin as they wished. Some currency, however, was valued even outside a realm’s boarders, at times even higher than local money; both the coins of the Kingdoms of Lindon and of Númenor were welcome all across Middle-earth.

“Will that be enough?” the half-elf asked.

The innkeeper wasted no time in snatching them up and holding them up against the flickering candle light. Erestor noted with approval that they were Númenórean coins. A pleased smile crossed the man’s face.

“Enough to get you a meal and a bath as well, lords.”

“Our horses are outside. Have your stable boy care for them well. I assume that their care is included in the price,” Elrond replied coolly, his tone allowing no objection.

“Naturally. Do you wish to take your meal here in the common room or upstairs?”

“Upstairs, thank you.”

“I’m at your service, my lords.” He passed them a key. “Third door on the left.”

 

The room they were given was just above the entrance of the inn, and looking out the window, Elrond noted that a young man was fetching their horses and leading them around the corner, presumably to the stable.

Erestor sat down on the bed, swinging his legs up to test the mattress only to find out that he was a tad too tall. His feet would be hanging off the end of the bed that night. The elf sighed.

“Fantastic.”

Elrond smirked a bit. He wouldn’t be doing much better, but it was only for the one night.

When the servants knocked on the door, Erestor quickly straightened his hood to obscure his face and ears. The humans evidently found it strange that the guests had not taken off their cloaks yet, but they were wise enough not to ask. They brought a light dinner and assured them that their bath would arrive later.

It was a pleasant change from cold springs and ponds. They took turns bathing before going to bed, exhausted. They did not speak about tomorrow, when they would cross the Baranduin into Minhiriath.

 

They left the town as they had arrived – anonymously. The ferryman did not ask questions, and soon they were out of sight over the hill. On the other side, a forest lay ahead of them.

“Now what? Straight ahead or along the coast?” Erestor inquired.

Elrond hesitated. They assumed that Maglor resided by the sea. They could skip the headland to their right, which would save them a day, but if the elf they sought was on it, they would miss him.

“We ride along the coast,” the half-elf decided. “We have the time, and I do not wish to miss anything.”

Perhaps, if they did not find the elf himself, they would at least find a sign of him having been there.

 

To be fair, Erestor had always paid less attention to Maglor than to Maedhros during the time they had spent together. Although the bard had shed his fair share of blood, too, Maedhros had been the dominating one, the one to make the decisions and to reach for his sword first. Naturally, he had kept a watchful eye on the twins' education, making sure that Maglor taught them nothing Erestor thought might harm them.

But, to his chagrin, that had never been the case. Maedhros had seemed the more dangerous one, and thus Erestor had always been more preoccupied with the redhead than his younger brother.

The last time he had seen Maglor had been from a distance as the bard had sung the Noldolantë, skilfully weaving their shameful history into a heart-wrenching lament. Erestor had not often thought of him after that, too busy with his own life and Elrond's – until the half-elf had decided to go on this journey to find the bard.

It did not matter whether Erestor hoped they would find him; he considered it his task to care for Elrond, and all that mattered was the half-elf's mental and physical wellbeing. If travelling through Middle-earth helped, he would do it.

They found nothing and no one on the headland. Elrond was not too disappointed, as he had known that he could not expect to find his foster-father so soon. They knew that Maglor was most often seen near the sea, and the half-elf assumed that the Silmaril he had cast into it still drew him. He knew of the power of that jewel; despite the fact that he had been so young, he had a clearer memory of the Silmaril than its wearer, his own mother Elwing.

Thus there were only two paths Maglor could have taken: north or south along the coast; as the bard had never been seen near elven settlements and they came down from the north, they assumed that Maglor was travelling south.

They made camp next to a spring, and while Erestor slept through the night, Elrond's sleep was not as restful. He kept waking up at odd moments, imagining the sound of a harp being played nearby.

In the morning, they broke their fast with waybread and then continued on their way. Around noon, they approached a small, human settlement of fishermen and their families.

The village was too small and not frequented enough to have an inn. Some honeyed words from Elrond got them an invitation to one of the villager's home and lunch table, and the meal they received was filling and good. Yet information, the one thing they sought most, they did not have. They left right after lunch.

That night they spent near the beach, only somewhat protected from the breeze coming from the sea by a row of bushes. Erestor remembered some of the other reasons why he had hated travelling with the Fëanorions.

They passed through another village, and the children there happily told Elrond that no, they had not heard anyone singing or playing the harp, but if he liked, they could sing really well, too. Erestor assumed that for 7-year-old humans they were not too horrifying.

And then they got lucky. Quite unexpectedly they came across a deserted hut made of clay and willow. The style was not particularly unique; anyone could have made it; and yet something drew Elrond to it, a sense of familiarity which would not let him ride past.

"Makalaurë was here," the half-elf stated with certainty.

Erestor had been stretching his legs; he had become too settled in Lindon, and now his muscles protested against days spent in the saddle. Nevertheless, he had not failed to keep an eye on Elrond and their surroundings.

He did not doubt the half-elf's words; even if there had not been any hard evidence, Elrond would have known intuitively whether Maglor had built this shelter or not.

"How old do you think it is?" Erestor asked.

The elf studied it with sharp eyes. "No more than two months. I believe he left about three weeks ago."

Erestor nodded. "We don't know how far he'll have gone in that time. But he has no horse, and most likely no set destination."

"We'll find him," Elrond concluded, dead certain.

Erestor was not quite as sure, but he did not voice his doubts. Perhaps it was merely his own desire that they not find the elder elf which was clouding his judgment.

They spent the night in the hut. Erestor fell asleep quickly, and his mind wandered to a scene decades ago.

* * *

 _ **560, First Age  
**_  
"They are my students," Erestor hissed angrily at Maglor.

The bard remained calm.

"They are not horses who have an owner," he replied. "They are children, and if they choose to be with me or my brother, I will not chase them away."

Erestor wanted to scream at Maglor. The twins were too easily impressed, and as they got older and their memory of the attack on Sirion faded, they lost their fear towards the sons of Fëanor.

An expression of pity crossed the bard's face, making Erestor want to punch him all the more.

"Erestor, our time with them is extremely limited. Who knows what will be in only a couple of years. Do not take that time away from us."

A hint of warning crept into his voice; Maglor was perhaps not even aware of it. Erestor, however, noted it. He had been watching and studying the brothers closely since he met them. They had shed much blood already, what would keep them from adding his own to the already soiled ground they walked on? Nothing.

"We will make certain they do not skip their lessons with you," Maglor added, and it sounded like a concession, although it really wasn't one. Neither Elrond nor Elros had ever skipped their lessons.

Behind Erestor, the curtain covering the hut's entrance rustled, and he swung around to find Maedhros had entered. He gave Erestor a cool, passing glance.

"We're leaving," he said, more to Maglor than to the other elf.

The bard only nodded resignedly. Erestor strode out of the dwelling. His mouth was set in a grim smile. King Gil-galad's soldiers were closing in again. He wondered if they would ever actually catch up. He was torn between wishing for exactly that, and hoping it did not happen: the only losers of such a battle he could see were himself, the twins, and the high king.


	4. Chapter 4

**443, Second Age**

Days went by without interruption. They followed Elrond's instincts, as they did not come across any other Fëanorian constructions. The next human village was a three days' ride away, and they found no one willing to help there. Elves were considered dangerous, to possess magic and all kinds of other nonsense that would usually drive Erestor to laughing himself to tears. Now, it was simply annoying.

They rode on and on, and population grew scarcer. It seemed like the perfect place for an elf who wanted to hide from the rest of the world. Yet the elves did not feel much triumph when they caught sight of smoke on the horizon.

“Humans,” Elrond said.

“And not just any. They are most likely bandits,” Erestor replied with a grim expression.

The half-elf was not so quick to assume the worst.

“Let’s go and see.”

They were more careful now. They wanted to avoid being seen, but did not know the area. However, Elrond and Erestor had mastered harder tasks. They left their horses behind and carefully neared the source of the smoke.

To their horror, they had been wrong - the camp was not occupied by humans, but by orcs! Some twenty orcs were sitting around, cursing, insulting, shoving, punching, and, of course, eating and drinking in the most disgusting ways.

Elrond’s lips turned into a snarl, and his hand twitched towards his sword. It was useless: there were too many orcs, and only two of them. They retreated, wordlessly mounting their horses and urging them to a trot.

“So darkness is gathering once more,” Elrond remarked.

“It was inevitable,” Erestor replied. “Yet this is only one group; let us not jump to conclusions.”

“You’re right: it was inevitable. Whether these orcs were an exception or not, they should serve as a warning to us,” the half-elf argued.

Erestor shrugged. “We’ll keep it in mind, and be careful on our way back. Now we neither have the means nor is it our purpose to deal with them.”

Elrond grimaced but nodded. The next human village would need to be warned, but they did not even know how far away that was. They followed their own road, stopping to rest only when it was too dark to travel onwards, and leaving again once the moon had risen and gave off enough light to see by.

And just when Elrond thought that their journey would end fruitlessly at the Gwathló or perhaps even at the Isen River, things changed.

It was early morning when Elrond awoke, much too early for his comfort. Staring at the rosy sky, he did not realize it at first that someone was singing nearby. He knew that voice. Within a moment he was on his feet. Erestor, having somehow felt his sudden movement, stirred, his hand reflexively reaching for the sword next to him.

“Wha-?”

“Makalaurë!”

Elrond left the horses where they were. His foster-father was within hearing range, so he had to be close. All sense of propriety left him, and he jogged towards where he thought the sound came from.

Erestor, once he realized why the half-elf had run off like that, followed him, caught him by the arm, and stopped him.

“Slowly! You can’t even tell where the voice is coming from, running like that!” Erestor admonished him.

Elrond shot him a dark look at the delay. He didn’t say anything, however, when Erestor took him by the hand like a child, and they walked on together more slowly.

They couldn’t always decide on a common direction. To Elrond it seemed to come from ahead, while Erestor thought they had to turn right. They pulled each other along, but no matter where they went, it seemed that they got no closer to the singer.

The sun rose behind the plains, and the light brightened, the seagulls started crying, and before they knew it, the singing had stopped, and they were a lot farther from the camp than they had intended.

Erestor swore. “You keep searching. I’ll get the horses.”

And he ran off as quickly as his swift feet would carry him. Erestor was by no means a fast runner, but he was faster than the average human.

Once at their abandoned camp, he quickly saddled the horses, tied their belongings behind the saddles and mounted his horse. His stomach complained against not having received breakfast. Ignoring it, Erestor took the other horse’s reins, drove his heels into his own horse’s flanks, and rode back to where he had left Elrond.

The half-elf was no longer there, of course, but he had left clearly visible tracks – usually a disadvantage of being a half-elf, but in this instance it served them well – and Erestor had no trouble following them on horseback. He finally tracked him down to the beach, where Elrond stood in front of a hut very much like the one they had come across some weeks ago. It was empty.

“Has he moved on?” Erestor inquired as he jumped off the horse. Now that they seemed so close to the end of their journey, he found himself excited rather than dreadful.

“I don’t know,” Elrond replied. “Perhaps he will return. I say we stay the night and find out.”

Erestor nodded. He unsaddled the horses again while Elrond restlessly walked about the area. Time went by slowly, and both elves were bored. Unfortunately, an elf’s eternal life was often filled with boredom, and had they been in Lindon, they would have gone to the library for some quiet reading, or played a game of chess.

The sun wandered across the sky westwards, and the elves tired. Erestor left once to go hunting, returning with a couple of conies which they cooked over an open fire. Before they knew it, they fell asleep in bright daylight.

Elrond was the first to wake. It was beginning to get dark, and the late hour jerked him fully awake. Had they missed Maglor?

Only then did he realize that he could hear, and see the flickering light of a fire. They had put out the cooking fire, and Erestor still lay fast asleep next to him.

Elrond sat up quickly and turned to the fire. His gaze met a pair of bright grey eyes. Grief and a hard life in isolation had dulled them somewhat, but only an elf would have been able to tell. The figure sitting across him seemed calm – outwardly. But he had suffered a thirst no water, wine, or even Miruvor could have quenched, and now that he had found the solution, he would not let it out of his sight; he had been starved for company. Anyone else he would have avoided; his foster-son, however, he could not leave sleeping on obliviously while he wandered on. He had suffered solitude too long, missed the half-elf too much that he had not been able to deny himself – and thus he had stayed.

“Ada,” Elrond breathed, and he sounded centuries younger and on the verge of tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Erestor woke to voices belonging to two people conversing quietly. The sun was about to set, and the elf cursed himself for sleeping for so long; now he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes during the night.

He recognized both Elrond and Maglor right away. He contained his surprise, though. Maglor was the first to realize that Erestor was awake.

“Well met,” the bard greeted him.

“Well met. Finally,” Erestor replied.

A ghost of a smile passed over Maglor’s lips.

“It’s been a long time.”

Erestor snorted as he sat up. “That’s an understatement.” And giving them both a challenging look, he asked: “Have you made a decision yet on whether Maglor will come back to Lindon with us?”

He was being cruel, and Erestor knew it. That question was an open sore, and he had put his finger right into it. He doubted that they had spoken of that matter yet, and their expressions proved him right.

Elrond threw him a black look, and Maglor, seeing it, said sadly:

"He's right to remind us, ion nin. I cannot return, and thus our reunion must be short."

A stubborn glint entered the half-elf's eyes.

"We will find a solution," he maintained.

* * *

"His tongue is as sharp as ever," Maglor remarked.

"He hasn't changed," Elrond agreed.

"A great supporter for you."

"The greatest. But he has not the influence to do much."

Maglor shrugged. "That may change in time. He has always struck me as one who would not be satisfied with the mundane. Tell me of Ereinion. Is he well? Are you friends?"

 

Erestor, in the meantime, had left to gather more firewood. That, at least, was one reason for why he left. The other was that he did not want to remain sitting peacefully across from the second son of Fëanor.

Of course, their journey’s goal had been to find Maglor. To tell the truth, Erestor had never wholly believed that they would succeed. Perhaps he had not wanted them to succeed. He had come with Elrond because he saw it as his duty to protect him.

Now they had, and they needed to deal with the consequences. However, he would leave it to Elrond and Maglor to find a way.

By the time he returned, they were in deep discussion. Elrond seemed frustrated, while Maglor’s expression had not changed from its calm look. They didn’t explain their argument to Erestor, and he didn’t ask.

They cooked dinner over the fire and ate it, speaking only occasionally. Maglor used both hands to eat, but mostly relied on his left. His right palm, Erestor saw, sported a large, vicious-looking burn.

Elrond met his gaze across the fire. He had seen the wound, too. They could both guess where it had come from: the Silmaril Maglor had finally managed to regain with his brother, the one he had held but burnt him badly until he had thrown it into the sea.

“I still hear it call to me,” Maglor spoke up. Not even now did he miss anything of what went on around him. “It is far removed from my grasp, yet I can still hear its voice.”

“The sea is no place for you,” Elrond replied after a long silence. “You have wasted away here long enough.”

Maglor chuckled. “And what would you suggest, foster-son? I recognize this land best, it being the last remains of Beleriand.”

“Travel deep into Middle-earth. Settle down near some human village, or perhaps find a remote tribe of woodelves you can stand to be around.”

“Humans have become suspicious and fearful of elves. And as for woodelves, the greater challenge would be finding a people which can stand _my_ presence.”

But the idea was not too bad, if there were indeed still some woodelves ignorant of the sons of Fëanor.

“Please,” Elrond added.

“I will think on it,” Maglor replied.

 

They spent the night curled up in the hut. They slept long, and when Elrond finally awoke, Erestor was still asleep and Maglor was gone. He stumbled outside, his legs sore from their cramped position during the night.

The bard had relit their campfire and was grilling a couple of fish for breakfast. Elrond heaved a silent sigh of relief.

Maglor smiled at him. "Sit," he said.

The half-elf obeyed. Now that the sun had risen, he finally had a chance to take a closer look at the older elf. Maglor was gaunt, his hair was unbound and unkempt, and he looked weary. His clothes were threadbare but good enough considering his circumstances.

"When Erestor and I set out, I could not be certain that we would find you," Elrond began.

"Why did you leave Forlond on little more than a rumour then?"

Elrond hesitated. "I wanted closure," he admitted. "We heard rumours about you from time to time; a fisherman saying he heard a voice, a trader claiming he had seen a lone elf... I wanted to _know_."

When the bard remained silent, Elrond gave a sigh of frustration.

"That did not make a lot of sense."

"It did," Maglor contradicted, yet not adding anything else.

And, after a while, Elrond burst out for seemingly no reason: "Elros is dead."

The bard nodded sadly. "I heard." On Elrond's surprised look, he explained: "A human trader I met mentioned it. I'm not completely ignorant of current events, you see."

"Wandering is not a way to live."

Maglor shrugged. "It is as I said yesterday; the Silmaril will not let me go. It haunts me, and I will never see it again, nor touch it again. It is as far removed from me as my home in the West."

Elrond bit his lip. "Perhaps it isn't."

Maglor's head jerked up, his eyes suddenly a lot more intense.

"Your home, Valinor, I mean. Did you know that Galadriel and the others were pardoned by the Valar? They may return to Valinor, and many have, only she and some others have chosen to remain."

Hope rose in the bard's eyes, but it only lasted for a moment. "They will never pardon _me_. I participated in the kinslayings as Artanis and the others never did. Their fault was shedding blood once by mistake; my fault is threefold, and I always knew exactly what I was doing."

"Why didn't you kill me and Elros then?" Elrond demanded. It was a question he had never dared ask as a youth.

Maglor stared at him.

"Why did you and Maedhros spare us?" the half-elf persisted.

"It was I," Maglor admitted in a rush. "Russandol—I do not know what he planned to do with you."

"But _why_?"

Maglor shrugged. "You were so young. We had just lost the Ambarussa. I remembered Eluréd and Elurín. I wanted you. I don't know, Elrond, I really cannot tell you."

Elrond sagged some with disappointment. The questions he had carried inside but never dared to voice would always remain unanswered then.

A long silence ensued, broken only when Elrond went back to their original topic.

"You should really think about what we said yesterday and move away from the sea. Lindon may not be possible, but there are other places you can go to."

"I will always hear the Silmaril call to me."

"Have you tried?"

The truth was that Maglor had not. Of course, it couldn't be that easy. But perhaps the call would not be so strong if he was away from the sea.

"You said that you wanted closure. Did you want it for yourself or for me?"

Elrond shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Both, I suppose."

“For no other man or elf would I leave this shore. You, however, are my foster-son and dear to me...” He trailed off. "I will do as you counsel."

Elrond suppressed the sigh of relief that wanted to escape.

"You could send messages from time to time; traders get around, men and dwarves both," he only said.

 

Erestor awoke, and they ate. Afterwards, Erestor made himself scarce again, exploring the surroundings instead. For Elrond’s sake he wanted the half-elf to have some time with Maglor, though Erestor was never far away. Their time together was limited.

Six days they spent like this. Maglor became increasingly restless staying in one place, and Erestor had become fed up three days before but not said anything. He did not witness Maglor and Elrond bidding each other goodbye, as he was saddling their horses. Elrond and the bard came to him when they were finished speaking, and Erestor clasped Maglor’s arm saying:

“Good luck.”

Maglor gave him a nod of thanks.

Elrond climbed onto his horse, and with a last look at his foster-father, turned his steed northwards. Maglor, in the meantime, starting walking eastwards through the knee-high grass.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Erestor asked.

"In a way," Elrond replied.

The older elf harrumphed. "Remember how I said that you might not be able to give him rest? I was right."

"And you were wrong too. At last he leaves the sea behind. That has to be good enough for me. I have made my peace with my past life, and I hope that eventually so will he."

Erestor looked doubtful but he held his tongue.

 

The way back to Lindon was uneventful. The orcs had left, and Elrond and Erestor passed through the same villages as before. The humans recognized them but did not bother them. In Lindon, Gil-galad and Círdan requested that the two elves report to them of their journey. Elrond kept his recount short, and Erestor his even shorter. Neither of them revealed where they had counselled Maglor to go, and the lords, glad that the bard had not returned, did not ask too many questions. Celebrimbor did not ask at all, although he wore a curious expression for a time whenever he encountered Elrond.

* * *

Years would pass in which only the occasional message reached Elrond in Lindon, letters which were never signed and always vague.

Through those letters, the half-elf learned that Maglor had indeed found a tribe of woodelves to dwell near for a while, but, before long, a letter from a different corner of Middle-earth reached him. Time went by, and Celebrimbor, Galadriel, Celeborn, Oropher and Thranduil left Lindon. Their paths would cross from time to time, and eventually they would all find their place in the world.

Evil awoke, and news from Maglor became scarce. In one of his last letters during that time, he described a beautiful valley he had come across and decided to settle in for a time. Eregion, Celebrimbor’s realm, was threatened, and High King Ereinion Gil-galad sent Elrond to render aid. Erestor rode with him, rebelling against being left behind to worry in a library that he was still not allowed to call his own.

They fought fiercely, but Sauron defeated them, and finally the elves fled when all was lost and Celebrimbor lay dead. With orcs practically nipping at their heels, and their return to Lindon blocked, they fled eastwards towards the mountains; it was coincidence rather than anything else that led them to what would quickly become Elrond’s realm and the Last Homely House of the elves.

 

They were tired when they reached the valley, so very tired. There were too many injured elves who had to be helped by those who were well enough to do so. Some still saw the flames devouring Eregion, the orcs slaughtering their kin. Their eyes were either blank or terrified, their minds caught up in terrible memories. The warriors were tired. Sauron’s army had been following them too closely for days. Now this valley would hopefully offer them refuge.

Elrond had been carefully watching the valley for sight of inhabitants. The location... it sounded so familiar to him, and he both hoped and feared to find he was right. The scouts he had sent had discovered nothing, but this did not mean anything. He hoped that he and his people would not disturb anyone, but his senses told him that they already had.

Elrond was at the head of the company, leading his horse. Everyone had been forced to climb off their horses to take the difficult path down into the heart of the valley. It was rocky, and easy to lose one’s footing. If they stayed, they would have to see about finding a better path, or perhaps making one. If they stayed, and if Sauron did not find them.

They had still not reached the bottom. The path was winding around cliff faces overgrown with moss. Turning a corner, his heart leapt into his throat at the sight: standing in the middle of the path was a tall figure, clothed in dark brown leather trousers, a dark green tunic, and a green, woollen cloak. The hood was drawn over the person’s downturned head, and a black cloth hid his face up to the nose, but Elrond could nevertheless see the bright grey eyes that met his gaze easily. The being’s hands were covered by leather gloves and tightly grasped an elven sword of the First Age in a defensive, yet easy stance.

The warriors immediately behind Elrond reached for their weapons and unsheathed their swords or drew their bows. Elrond threw his hand back in a gesture to stay their actions. The man in the middle of the road did not move a muscle.

Still not looking at anyone but the half-elven lord at the front of the group, he said:

“Welcome, Elrond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Fëanor’s banner: as far as the emblem itself, the square, the circle and the flames are concerned, I tried to describe the picture shown by various sources, which is based on the book _J. R. R. Tolkien: Artist and Illustrator_ by Christina Scull and Wayne Hammond. I could not find any information on what kind of background colour the Fëanorian banner had, so I chose blue for purely artistic reasons.
> 
> Maglor calls Maedhros “Russandol”. It’s his epessë or nickname and means Copper-top. I decided against using Maitimo (his mother-name) because I thought that Maedhros may have resented the meaning (“well-shaped one”) after his rescue from Thangorodrim where his hand was cut off. Maedhros calls Maglor Makalaurë. Supposedly, with the exception of Curufin, all sons of Fëanor preferred their mother-name. I used the Quenya names Russandol/Makalaurë in dialogue because I do not think that the sons of Fëanor spoke Sindarin with each other. Elsewhere I used the more common Sindarin names.
> 
> **Names of the sons of Fëanor**
> 
> _(Quenya mother-name – Epessë where necessary – Sindarin name)_  
>  Maitimo – Russandol – Maedhros  
> Makalaurë – Maglor  
> Ambarussa – Amras/Amrod (both twins were called by that name)


End file.
